You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about him lately. About the magnificent things he did, the puzzles he solved, the legacy he left. Yet, the history books tell us that he was not real.
Written in the 19th century by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. “The Great Detective,” based somewhat upon the author’s medical school instructor. Rumored to be based upon Doyle himself…interesting mythology, no?
Oh, but you should see it. The way this city loves the man. Baker Street looks unruined compared to its surroundings, even though we both know it is not true. Of all the parts of the country to ensure to be rebuilt, the home of a fictional detective was chosen. It stands out like a beacon amongst the grey and dark of the area, as well. That famous maroon catching the eye of all that fly by (it may have been rebuilt, but it is still quarantined for another decade). I mean, this much love for someone fictional? I’ve never been a skeptic, but it just does not seem likely.
How could such a person, such a force of nature not have been real?
And the accounts by Watson?
Writing was indeed a different machine altogether if those were the work of the imagination. Our contemporary works don’t even come close, as I am sure you have already found in your studies. And the sculptures, you see, they really do not help. They take up much of the space in the parks we are allowed to peruse.
Another medical man…I am sensing a pattern here. Do you see it my friend? It is one thing to be inspired by the abilities of an existing man. But, the characterization, attention to detail, bias of a limited narrator? Ah, it all makes a little too much sense. Is it real enough to have actually been true? That is the question.
I’m afraid I too am beginning to believe in this mythical boisterous figure.